Winter's Bullet

by William Osborne

  Once they had reached the street, they went around to the back of the shop and shimmied over the high wall using the rope that Tygo had left behind when he escaped on Christmas Day. Nothing had changed at Winter’s Locksmiths since, including his bedroom door that the Resistance had smashed down.

  “You’ll be safe here,” he said. “The Resistance know I don’t live here now. There’s no food, I’m afraid, but I’ll bring what I can when I come back.”

  “You’re coming back?” Willa was staring at him skeptically.

  “Yes, of course,” Tygo said.

  “Look, I told that man and I’m telling you, I don’t know anything about this diamond, this Red Queen!”

  “Really?” Tygo tried to hide the note of disappointment in his voice.

  “Really. So there’s no point, is there, in coming back?”

  “You know, you’re a very hard person to be friends with.”

  “We’re not friends.”

  Tygo stood there a moment longer; he could be as stubborn as she was, he decided.

  “Well, I’m coming back,” he said, “like it or lump it.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said.

  “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  If the door had still been on its hinges, Tygo would have slammed it on his way out.

  Tygo made it back to Headquarters by five. The elevator wasn’t working again, so he sprinted up the stone stairs to the third floor. His legs just about made it. Since the events of the afternoon he had been running on adrenaline.

  Krüger was still inside his office. The door was open, as was often the way to let the cigarette smoke out, rather than opening a window to the frigid air. Tygo stood in the doorway, and Krüger glanced at him after a couple of moments and waved him in.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Back to my parents’ shop, to fetch some extra tools.”

  Krüger nodded, and Tygo started to get a bad feeling inside. Had van Meegeren already been to see him? he wondered. But no—it seemed unlikely he would come here to tell Krüger he had failed.

  Krüger got up from his desk and crossed to the large safe. He unlocked it and took out a velvet pouch before quickly locking the safe again. “We’ve been busy, you and I, these last six months. Here, take a look.”

  Krüger returned to his desk and tipped the pouch. A cascade of flashing, iridescent diamonds waterfalled out onto his ink blotter.

  “Do you know what these are?”

  Tygo nodded—of course he knew.

  “My future.” Krüger cupped a cluster in his palm. “Fate—or rather General Müller—has given me the chance today to secure a very pleasant one.” He fished a small metal tin from his drawer and carefully measured half of the diamonds into it. The rest he returned in their pouch to the safe.

  Again Tygo watched Krüger turn the key in the lock and place the key back in his pocket. He unconsciously put his own hands in his pockets, and felt the plug of potter’s clay from the day before.

  “Where were you going last night?” Krüger asked the question lightly.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You surrendered to a sector twelve patrol in the small hours. What were you doing?”

  Tygo felt his face becoming hot.

  “Lie to me and I will have you shot.”

  “I was going back to the villa.”

  Krüger stared at him, and Tygo could see his mind working. “Van Meegeren spoke of a girl.”

  Tygo had to decide what to say. Clearly Krüger already had his suspicions; he had checked up on his movements the night before, and had listened to van Meegeren.

  “She was in the house, up the chimney.”

  Krüger walked around from behind his desk. He struck Tygo hard across the face, the first time he had ever done such a thing. Tygo fell back onto the floor, felt his mouth fill with a warm metallic taste.

  “Where is she? Does she have the stone?”

  Tygo shook his head, his cheek burning. “She wasn’t there. I don’t know where she is. She must have run, I swear.”

  Tygo hoped Krüger would believe him. He swallowed the blood and started to get back up, but Krüger grabbed ahold of his collar and hauled him to his feet. God, the man was strong. Tygo had never realized.

  “Are you lying?”

  “She wasn’t there! Why would I lie to you? I went to find the stone for you!” Tygo shouted. “For you!”

  Krüger’s eyes bored into Tygo’s, then his grip around his neck began to relax. The Oberst let him go and took a step back, thinking.

  “She must have it. That’s why she ran. When we return, you and I are going to find her.”

  Tygo nodded, then frowned. “Return? We’re going somewhere, Herr Oberst?”

  Krüger nodded. “You don’t imagine for one moment I am going to let you out of my sight now?” He pocketed the small tin of diamonds and picked up the black attaché case that General Müller had brought with him.

  Outside it was bitterly cold. Krüger’s Opel was accompanied by an armored car in front and behind. He was taking no chances. Krüger dropped the case into a metal box, closed the lid, and secured the metal latches. “Bulletproof and fireproof,” he said before slamming the trunk lid. They clambered inside and the convoy moved off. For a moment, Tygo could have sworn he saw Ursula across the street, huddled in a doorway, but when he looked again no one was there.

  They sat in silence as the vehicles made their way through the city, sirens wailing plaintively. It was a horrible sound. Another freezing night would embrace the city, and the terrible winter would gun down a fresh squad of victims.

  “Where are we going?” Tygo asked, his cheek still stinging.

  “Wait and see,” replied Krüger, lighting a cigarette.

  Twenty minutes later, a partial answer was provided to Tygo’s question as the convoy was waved through the security barrier at Schiphol, the city’s main airfield. It was heavily fortified with wire fences and watchtowers, and Tygo could see bomb craters pockmarking the whole area. The convoy’s lights cut a narrow path past a line of German fighters and assorted Junker transports, all covered with snow, before driving into a hangar behind the control tower.

  “Bring the box,” Krüger said, climbing out.

  Tygo did as he was told and followed Krüger toward the aircraft parked inside the hangar. It was a huge four-engine bomber, the wing positioned on top of the fuselage and with a twin tail. It was the biggest plane Tygo had ever seen, its undercarriage wheels as big as tractor tires. It was painted a matte black and had simple white stars on its wings and tail.

  “An American B-24 Liberator bomber, before you ask,” said Krüger. “A lot safer for flying over enemy territory.”

  The normal crew of eleven had been reduced to nine to accommodate the two passengers. The pilot walked across in light-blue Luftwaffe flying overalls. He was wearing a bright orange life jacket around his neck like a stuffed fox.

  “American?” said Tygo, staring at the plane.

  “Ja, captured in Italy, ran out of fuel,” replied the pilot, before saluting Krüger smartly. “Werner Baumbach, commander of Kampfgeschwader 200, at your disposal, Herr Oberst.”

  Krüger returned the salute smartly. “A great honor,” he said. Tygo thought he sounded almost deferential.

  “And where do we have the pleasure of taking you tonight?” Baumbach asked.

  Krüger reached into his jacket and took out a buff envelope, which he handed to Baumbach. “Your flight plan and instructions are here. How soon can we fly?”

  “We are almost ready for you now—perhaps a little more fuel, depending on the destination. Please climb aboard; we have fitted two seats in the waist gunner’s compartments. I will have some coffee and sandwiches loaded for you.”

  “Thank you, Oberstleutnant. What about the package?”

  “There is a special compartment for it inside the plane. Do you wish one of my men to load it?”

  “No, we’ll
take it on board.”

  “We’re going too?” said Tygo, surprised.

  “Didn’t I mention that?” said Krüger with a thin smile.

  Tygo and Krüger had been allocated the midsection of the bomber for their seats and the safe carriage of Krüger’s cargo. There was a floor-mounted metal compartment into which the metal box fit. It was armored, one of the crew members said as he helped Tygo slot it in. After that, the crew member showed Krüger and Tygo their seats, which had been bolted just behind the large Perspex windows that served as firing positions for the plane’s midsection pair of heavy-caliber waist guns. There were American AN/M2 .50 caliber machine guns with a gun heater near the breach and a K-13 compensating sight at the back near the trigger button.

  The Perspex windows were latched closed, but the crew member demonstrated to them how, if the plane were to come under attack, they were to fix the windows open and slide the gun around into the opening. He showed them how to work the gun, the cocking handle and firing button, before sliding the gun back and relatching the window closed. Next, he helped them both to pull on their flying coveralls, thick sheepskin coats, and leather flying caps and goggles, and showed them how to put on the oxygen masks and work the radio. Finally he helped them pull on their parachutes and snap the stiff four-point harnesses into the heavy steel buckles.

  Tygo felt like some gigantic beetle in danger of toppling over and not being able to right itself. Krüger didn’t look too comfortable either.

  “Don’t worry about the parachute,” the crew member laughed as he climbed back down through the plane’s belly hatch, “you’ll be dead long before you ever get to use it!”

  The hatch was slammed closed by their feet, and Krüger and Tygo sat in their seats on either side of the fuselage. Tygo found he was sweating. He managed to lean forward and stare out the window, the oxygen mask swinging loose from one side of his flying cap. Listening to the ground crew shouting final orders, and then the high-pitched whine of the starter motors, followed by the heavy cough of the big engines as they caught, and finally the blast of noise as each one burst into life, Tygo forgot all his fears and was caught up in the excitement of the moment. He had never in his whole life been on a plane.

  He pressed his face against the window as the craft suddenly lurched forward and then started to roll over the concrete, thumping on the ridges in it, gathering speed. After a couple of minutes, the tail of the plane suddenly swung around and the engines roared much louder. The plane accelerated hard, and Tygo could see a few lights flashing past … then, with a last thud, it was free of the ground and climbing up steeply into the darkness.

  Tygo was pressed back into his seat. He gripped the arms and stared ahead as the plane plowed forward at an alarmingly steep degree; it almost felt like they were falling rather than climbing. He fumbled for the lap belt fitted to the seat and managed to clip the two parts together.

  He tried to adjust to this new sensation of flying. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced: He felt tethered but at the same time strangely weightless. There was no clackety-clack of train wheels over points, just the throb of the engines and the faint whistling sound of rushing air.

  But then the plane started to bounce, like a speedboat hitting a swell. The engine roared louder. Tygo cried out in alarm.

  “It’s just turbulence, Frettchen,” Krüger yelled across to him. “It’s nothing.”

  But it didn’t feel like nothing as the giant bomber suddenly shot up through the air. Then it was over; Tygo could see that they were above the clouds now. He felt his heart hammering inside his chest. He glanced over at Krüger, who was smoking a cigarette, taking in deep lungfuls of smoke. Of course, he’d probably been on planes lots of times, Tygo thought.

  After about ten minutes, the plane performed a long, slow bank, rolling onto its left side. Leaning forward, Tygo thought he could see the sea shifting below them, the tops of the waves iridescent. He wondered what it must be like to crash into it at hundreds of miles an hour.

  He turned and checked on Krüger again. He had wedged a blanket between the fuselage and his seat and was resting his head on it, his eyes closed. His nonchalance made Tygo relax. Everything would be all right, he told himself.

  He stared ahead down the fuselage, past the gun positions. There was a solid bulkhead with a small hatch to allow a crew member to crawl through to the next section of the plane. It started to get very cold, and Tygo clipped on the oxygen mask and pulled on a pair of heavy fleece-lined mittens, then yanked the goggles down over his eyes. He felt a lot better now. He didn’t have a pillow, but he propped his head against the side of the plane and closed his eyes. It had been a very, very long day.

  He slept fitfully, waking every half hour with a sudden start, gasping at the oxygen in the mask, feeling like he was being pushed underwater. When he opened his eyes again, it felt like the plane was descending. Tygo looked out the window, but could see absolutely nothing, just a thick white fog. They must be in cloud, he realized, but there was a gentle pressure on his back, pushing him forward against his lap belt, and the floor of the plane was tilting down.

  “Soon be there!” Krüger yelled to him from the other side of the fuselage. He had a steaming mug of coffee in his hand and another cigarette in the other. He put the cigarette in his mouth, leaned down, and rolled the thermos flask across the plane. Tygo unscrewed the cap and tried to sip the hot liquid inside. It wasn’t coffee after all, but it was very sweet and hot and it perked him up a bit.

  He looked out the window again. They seemed to be descending faster, and Tygo heard a whizzing of hydraulics and grinding of gears as the undercarriage was deployed. Below him he could see the sea again, and the lights of a city, bright lights twinkling in their thousands. It was incredible—where on earth could they have reached that had no blackout? He could see streets and individual buildings all lit up, and ships, hundreds of them all along the docks. It was amazing.

  The name on the main airport building read AEROPUERTO DE BARCELONA. Spain. They had flown to Spain! That would explain the lights: Spain was a neutral country in the war.

  They taxied past the airport building and continued until they reached a part of the apron far from the rest of the planes and buildings. Tygo unstrapped his belt and stood up, a little wobbly, but feeling excited at this turn of events. The plane came to a final halt and the engines were switched off, the propellers starting to wind down. Krüger unlatched the hatch door and dropped down through it.

  “Hand me the package,” he shouted up to Tygo.

  Tygo did as he was told, unlashing the metal box and carefully handing it down through the hatch. He waited there, and Krüger looked up at him.

  “Well? What are you waiting for?”

  Tygo dropped through the hatch onto the tarmac. It was a little after midnight, but the night air was completely different from Amsterdam. There was still a smell of the fuel and rubber, but also the briny tang of the sea and something else, like a spice, almost. It was so much warmer too, perhaps fifty degrees.

  Baumbach had climbed down from the cockpit and was walking across to them.

  “Congratulations, Oberstleutnant,” said Krüger, “you got us here in one piece.” The two men saluted each other.

  “And I will get you back in one piece too!” He grinned jauntily, his flying cap askew. Tygo noticed the Iron Cross with Oak Leaves around his neck. He looked very handsome and brave, he thought.

  “Excellent,” replied Krüger. “We need to leave in two hours—you will be ready?” He started to strip off all his flying gear and Tygo followed suit.

  “Of course—we might even have time for a little paella and a jug or two of sangria, eh, boys?” The rest of his crew, who had gathered around, shouted their approval of that idea.

  They all turned at the sound of vehicles approaching. The lead vehicle was a large Hispano-Suiza J12, a four-door luxury car. Behind it were an army jeep and truck. The vehicles stopped, and soldiers clambered out of the
back.

  Baumbach began to unhook the retaining button on his holster.

  “Please, Commander, don’t be alarmed,” said Krüger. “They are here to protect us. It has all been arranged. It is not often an American bomber lands on neutral territory.”

  The soldiers fanned out around the plane, taking up picket duty. From the Hispano emerged a small, very distinguished-looking man dressed in the robes of a Catholic priest. He had a large silver cross on a chain around his neck and he was wearing a biretta, a stiff, square-shaped silk hat with trim and tuft. It was purple, the color for a bishop—Tygo knew that. He walked with a silver-topped cane.

  “Welcome to Barcelona,” he said in German. His skin was the color of caramel, his voice like butter. “The señorita is expecting you.”

  It was going to be a long night of firsts for Tygo. First time on a plane, and now first time inside such a ludicrously luxurious motorcar. The interior was lined with the softest calf leather, the doors fitted with rosewood panels, and dark-blue Wilton carpet lay on the floor. There was a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and two crystal goblets. A polished silver voice trumpet connected the passengers in the rear seat to the driver up front.

  The chauffeur started the engine and they pulled away. The car was whisper-quiet and super-fast. They whistled out of the airport and along the deserted streets of the city. The metal box sat between the two men on the rear seats, Tygo facing them on a fold-down seat behind the driver’s partition.

  The two men talked occasionally in mutters, with a lot of nodding on Krüger’s part, and Tygo was content to stare out at the houses, so different from those of his hometown. How wonderful it was to be in a city at peace. No death, no destruction, just like it used to be back home, he thought.

  He didn’t even notice how long it was before the car pulled to a halt outside a grand-looking French-style building of ten or more stories. The bishop picked up the speech trumpet and spoke to the driver, and the car moved off again, turning the corner and making a series of further turns until it pulled into the alley behind the hotel.